The room goes completely still.
Even Verónica stops moving.
For a second, you can almost hear Ximena’s mind trying to rearrange the digits into a cosmetic problem. Maybe an accounting delay. A technical temporary. A numbers misunderstanding. Something that still ends with keys in her hand and you carrying boxes out of Santa Fe while she orders marble samples from an architect.
But numbers, again, are not romantic.
They don’t flirt, soothe, or improvise.
She sinks back into her chair.
“That’s impossible,” she says faintly.
And in a cruel way, you understand her better than anyone in the room.
